


Magpies and Marigolds

by isnt_it_pretty



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Claustrophobia, Dead People, Domestic Violence, Drowning, Gen, Ghosts, Horror, I Tried, If I couldve avoided them I would have, Murder, Mystery, Nyctophobia, OCs for the sake of filling out the world, Post-Canon, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Superstition, Suspense, but not really, dead children, im sorry, vengeful spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 07:10:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: When a diplomat is killed, Felix is sent to the small northern town of Edgepass, in the now fallen Gautier territory, to investigate. It just so happens that this town has been plagued by mysterious, and seemingly supernatural, deaths for almost fifteen years. Can he figure out what's happening? Or will childhood memories prove to be too much?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know, I normally write Sylvix, but I wanted to give horror a try. And for reasons that will become obvious, this really can't be Sylvix.
> 
> Please pay attention to the tags!
> 
> Also, let me know if you can tell which horror movie I pulled a bit of inspiration from...
> 
> Edit to add: This will all be posted within the next 24 hours. Happy Halloween!

Devotion is a window to the soul, the idea that beyond death there is life, a freedom from the black abyss of nothing that threatens to swallow even the strongest of men. Children cry in the arms of their parents, the knowledge that nothing but that Goddess stands between them and oblivion, as if the Goddess could protect them from all the evils of the world. As if she would hold them close and whisper sweet sounds to ground them to reality, leading them down the path to beyond. 

Felix has long since known all that was false. Nothing but stories, fables.

Even as a child, starry eyed by the mysteries of the world, he knew deep down the stories his father told him were lies. There was no happy ending to a life of suffering. No warmth to protect against the harsh reality of death. There was no glory in the end, only the pain of those left behind.

* * *

It was raining when he arrived in the village, pattering down around him, and bouncing off Felix’s waxed canvas cloak. The trees loomed above him, shadows cast by the lamp he carried as he rode. Felix had wanted to make the town before nightfall, but the rain had slowed him down. Another night on the road, in this cold, wet weather, outweighed any risk of riding in the darkness. 

It was odd, and perhaps a little bittersweet, to be this far north again. He hadn’t been to the former Gautier territory since long summers spent there as a child, running through fields with wooden swords, shouting and playing. But that was a long time ago, more than ten years, and much had changed since then. The trees however, stayed the same. Tall pines that towered above him, making him feel small.

The town of Edgepass, just east of the river and a few hours north of the now fallen Castle Gautier, was small. He remembered it being bigger, at one point, but perhaps that was just the perception of a child. After all, few people were willing to struggle through the harsh winters of the region, marked by freezing winds and little food. It was probably made worse after the territory joined the Dukedom

Edgepass still held a strategic point though. It was the only town that sat on the way to Fodlan’s border with Sreng. In the years before the war, soldiers, and even the Margrave and his family, would pass through. Of course, just as many others, Edgepass was full of superstition and fear. Practices long since abandoned by the rest of Fodlan seemed to prevail within its northernmost territories. Old spells and curses, omens and fortunes. All such things deemed untrue by modern magical and scientific literature. Not that Felix ever cared about any of that, he was only there for the job.

The dirt road, which was mostly mud after days of heavy rain, let the water flow out of what was probably the centre of town. He passed by a few hovels, dark behind their shuttered windows. Eventually, the road transitioned into old cobblestone. 

He dismounted in front of a stone building, the largest in sight. A wooden sign creaked in the wind, reading Elmcliff Inn. The windows let a soft glow into the night, promising a dry warmth that he so desperately missed in the days since he left Galatea. To the left, he spotted the stables. It was small and unkempt, but not an absolute ruin. At the very least it would keep his horse dry and warm.

He was welcomed by a young boy, who looked cold and tired. He wore dirty clothing, and Felix thought he spotted a bruise on his arm. Whether from work, or another person, Felix couldn’t be sure. They exchanged few words as he handed off his horse, along with a silver, before he made his way into the building.

A blast of warm air hit him as he entered the inn. A man stood at the bar, burly and straight faced, other patrons sat around tables, drinking or eating. They all stopped when he entered, watching as he made his way across the wooden floor, scratched and scuffed with age. The light glow from the fire, against the wall opposite the door, was aided in illuminating the room by oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. A set of wooden stairs next to the bar led to what was likely the second floor, while an archway on the other side was likely a path to the kitchen, if the smell of cooking meat was anything to go by. 

“How can I help you, Sir?” the gruff man asked, putting down the mug he was wiping. His eyes squinted as he takes in his appearance, near soaked through and shivering. Although he tried his best to keep a low profile, hide any wealth, there are some things he just couldn’t give up on. Namely a good cloak, and sturdy boots. The man seems to have noticed this, judging by how his attention is held by a prospective customer. 

Even inside, the sound of thunder is growing deafening. Or maybe it was just him.

“I’d like a room,” he replied, waiting for the rest of the patrons to go back to their drinks and games. Sometimes it took longer than others. 

“I can do that,” the man replies. They haggle the cost, although he isn’t all that concerned with the price. The job was going to pay well, after all. Considering nobody else was willing to take it. 

It didn’t take long for the man, who’s name Felix comes to discover is Igor Winstral, to have his wife Tabitha prepare a room, along with a hot bath. Both of which are heavenly to him. The water soothed his aching muscles after days of travel, and heated his bones from the frigid cold. It wasn’t the nicest inn he’d stayed in, but it was something. Anything would have been better than sleeping on the ground in a thunderstorm. Besides, the bed hosted a thick quilt, which even smelled clean. With any luck, he wouldn’t be sharing the covers with bugs. 

Hunger brought him down from his room, dressed in dry clothing, his cloak left drying in front of the private fire in his room, and the door locked behind him with a big, brass key.

Tabitha served him food, a hearty stew with chunks of deer and overcooked vegetables. She hid behind long brown hair, barely tied out of her face. Her faded pink dress is long sleeved against the cream bodice. She was shy, unwilling to make conversation. After she left, Igor set a mug of piss tasting ale down in front of him. Both were practically customary of small northern Fodlan towns. Well, shitty ale is customary everywhere, but the former Empire tended towards wine, while the Alliance went mostly towards mead. 

The table was wood, probably maple, or maybe oak, although unlikely that far north. He never was good at identifying types of wood, it didn’t matter anyways. He ran his hand along the scratches carved into it, and found himself wondering how old this inn was. Had it existed before Faerghus broke away from Adrestia, or was it built after? The edges of the deep rivets were smoothed from time after all.

“So, Felix,” Igor said, drawing his eyes. He never gave a last name when traveling, partly to avoid his whereabouts being made news, and partly because he left his title and family behind. The only person he still spoke to occasionally was Ingrid, but she was head of house Galatea. The bartender continues. “What brings you to Edgepass?”

He supposed it was a fair question. One that he’s been asked dozens of times over the years. Sometimes he’s honest, sometimes he isn’t. A town as superstitious as that one, secretly being terrorized by unseen forces? Well, he had to start asking around sometime, and the bartender was probably the best place to begin.

“I’ve been sent to look into some... strange happenings,” he said, taking a sip of the piss ale. He watched the man’s face, waiting for any kind of tell.

Surprise, curiosity, and maybe a little bit of fear. 

“You mean the murders,” his voice is quiet, just barely above a whisper. Nobody else seemed to notice their conversation, which is probably for the best. News would get around that a newcomer was asking suspicious questions, and then this would get a whole lot harder. A few weeks prior, The Professor had sent a diplomat to try and organize an accord with the people of Sreng. The man was killed after passing through the town, a death that was apparently not abnormal, at least compared to the many there had been over the years. 

Felix nodded, speaking just as quietly. “I do. Unfortunately, what information I have is scarce. Only that the circumstances of these deaths are abnormal, and that there have been several such occurrences over the years.”

Igor looked uncomfortable.

“Is any of it true?” he asked, coaxing. It wasn’t his specialty to look into crime, but with something as weird as that? Nobody was willing to touch it. Besides, after fighting Those Who Slither in the Dark, and Nemesis of all people, not a lot could shake him.

“I-” he starts. “Yes. Bodies disfigured and drowned, in places with no water. Always the same. The same bloody fingers, like their nails were ripped off and the flesh sanded away. The same bruises splattered across their skin, and a ring of ‘em around their neck. One the shape of a handprint on their left arm. One of their shoulders is wrong, discolored and the like. Can’t remember which. Somethings always off with their head too, like they hit it too hard. It’s been happening for at least a decade. Maybe a decade and a half.” 

“Do you know anything else?” he asked, but a different patron called the man’s attention. 

“I’m sorry, I should get back to work.” He stood, and walked back towards the bar. Felix cursed those who refused to answer his questions.

Annoying, but he knew more than he’d known previous. The only rumors he’d heard were people drowning on dry land. Bloody fingers and bruises, always the same, were more interesting, and perhaps a bit concerning.

There were no other people who seemed like they would be open to questioning yet, but perhaps tomorrow he could try speaking to Tabitha. Quiet as she was, she would probably know more than she would ever let on. People forget that those that don’t speak are capable of listening, especially when they’re viewed as lower station, such as the wife of a bartender.

So, Felix headed back to his room, pleasantly warmed by the fire. He slept well that night wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, listening to the rain patter against the glass window. Much better than the previous nights.

By dawn, the rain had lightened to a soft sprinkle, instead of the pouring storm from before. 

There seemed to be a few regulars, already drinking despite the early hour. A few more were passed out against tables and chairs. However, Felix seemed to be the only actual  _ guest _ at the small establishment. 

Tabitha served him porridge, bland and fruitless. 

“Actually,” he said before she could scurry back to the kitchen. She reminded him of a mouse, or perhaps a rabbit. Already prepared to make her exit. A fondness bubbled in his chest as it reminded him of Marianne. “I’d like to ask you a question.”

She seemed unsure, but couldn’t exactly refuse a guest. It was a dick move, but he needed answers. Besides, he was trying to be nicer than he would be normally. He could go back to his rude self once whoever was behind the murders was dealt with. Likely dead.

“Oh, um,” she glanced back to the kitchen. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promised, which was probably a fucking lie, but what did promises mean anyways? Yeah, okay. Being in Gautier was definitely making him nostalgic, and maybe a tad bitter.

“Okay,” she whispered, sitting. She kept her head down, it was odd. Meek, yes, but something else. Was that a bruise on her face? He remembered the boy from last night.

Well, there goes his entire line of questioning, a new one in its place. “The stablehand,” he said. “Is he yours?”

“Stefan?” she looked up, and yup, that was a bruise. Along her cheek bone, as if somebody struck her. A small smile appeared on her lips. “Yes. He’s mine. A good boy.”

He nodded. Apparently not good enough to avoid his father’s wrath. Maybe once it was done, he’d do something about that. Even after all that time, he still didn’t take well to abusers. His theory, the reason they make his skin itch with anger, had never been confirmed, but he didn’t need it to be.

“Just one more question,” Felix said, fishing a coin from his belt purse. Bribery was always the best way to get information. “The murders. Any idea where I can find out more about that?”

She eyed the money in his hand. “Talk to Alesya Mervane,” she replied. “Her father was the most recent killed.” Tabitha dropped her voice even lower. “They say she saw it,” she whispered. “Whatever she saw, the poor girl won’t talk to many people anymore.”

That was good enough for him. He passed her the coin, and went back to eating his meal.

Several of the men started waking up. Felix watched as they paid off their tabs and went off to whatever work they had to do. Many of them seemed like hunters or wood cutters, which was probably correct. There wasn’t a lot of farmable land that far north, although if he recalled there was a mine not far away. 

Felix waited around until mid morning before heading out. In the day, it was easier to see what the town looked like. A few buildings were scattered around what looked like a main area, most of them seemed to be homes with businesses at the front, as was most common, even in larger cities. 

He caught a few glances from some of the adults as he wandered along the edge of the town square. There, in front of the tailor’s shop. A cluster of children.

“Hello,” he said, approaching them. They spooked, and some scattered, but a few of them looked at him curiously. He produced another coin, holding it for them to see. “I’m looking for a girl. Alesya. Do any of you know where I can find her?”

The children glanced at one another, either too scared of a stranger or unsure of what answer would avoid them getting into trouble from their parents.

He waited, patience waning. He’d never been good with kids. During the war he had often left that to some of the gentler souls. Rapheal was especially great with them, probably due to his younger sister.

Eventually, a young boy stepped forward, just slightly. He was taller than some of the other children, probably eight or nine. Any older and he would have been out helping his father work. His ash blonde hair was cropped short, and wore clothing that looked like they desperately needed repairs. Poor and hungry, such was the life of children in a recovering country, growing up during, and just after a war.

“Um,” he said quietly. “Alesya live used to live with her father. She’s with her aunt now, just on the edge of town. The small cottage, with the yellow flowers.” He pointed to the north, a dirt road leading away from the small town square. A few houses were scattered along the sides. 

Felix passed him the coin, and started down the road. No point saying thank you, payment was enough for that.

It wasn’t long until he came across the small cottage the boy spoke of. An empty clothesline was strung in front of the house, and a pile of firewood sat against the side. The windows were shuttered closed, and Felix imagined it must have felt suffocating in such a small house. From the outside it looked like it could barely fit a couple, let alone a child.

The ground was uneven as he approached, holes and divots in the ground made him have to watch his footing as he moved across the small yard between the house and the road.

Without hesitating, he knocked on the door. Three strong raps. 

After a moment, the door opened just a crack, and revealed a disheveled woman. Her hair was wrapped in a shawl, and her uncertain eyes glanced over him. Her tongue wet her lips, red and chapped from the wind and cold. “Who are you?” she asked, voice raspy against the gentle rain. He couldn’t see how much of her features, other than her bloodshot eyes.

“I need to speak to your niece,” he said bluntly.

There was silence as she looked at him, eyes squinted as she did. Somewhere above a solitary bird sounded. The woman startled at the sound, and looked up at the sky. Sure enough, sitting on a nearby tree was a lone magpie, watching them.

She shook her head, attention brought back to him. “No, you can’t speak to her.”

He groans. “Please don’t make my job harder than it already is.”

The door slammed shut in front of him, and the bird took to the sky. No amount of knocking produced any further response, and eventually he was forced to give up.

Part of him understood, that little girl had watched her father being murdered, but it was important he figured out what the actual fuck was going on.

Asking around the tavern again gave no more leads, and the townsfolk seemed to be too wary of him for it to even be worth digging further. He wondered when the next murder would be, considering the last was two weeks ago. He’d gotten the offer from the Professor, and probably Claude, while in Galatea. Of course, as soon as it was somebody outside the little village, the world seemed to care.

The rain had mostly let up when Felix decided he’d go for a walk. It had been so long since he’d been in the area, if he was going to be staying any reasonable amount of time he needed to familiarize himself with the terrain, just outside of the town.

He headed south, finding an old path that seemed to be overgrown. It was hard to tell whether it was just neglected, or if it was primarily used by animals and hunters. Whichever, it was still defined enough to travel with relative ease, especially after so many years of fighting in wilderness (he recalled following Marianne and the Professor to kill demonic beasts in a forest.  _ That _ was a shit show). 

Carefully, Felix picked his away across creeping plants, and jumped over fallen branches, likely ripped down by the weight of snow. It was rocky, and unsteady footing, but it made for a good hike. He always thought best when he was hiking. 

If he couldn’t speak to Alesya, he needed to start asking around town more. He couldn’t just bribe everybody he came across, even the Professor would likely reimburse him for it. There had to be a solution.

Just as he was deciding to turn back, Felix broke across the treeline. He stood in a small clearing almost eerily devoid of life. No mass of undergrowth hindered his steps, as it had done all the way there. Instead, the dirt path was empty aside from the rocks that had naturally made their way to the surface. The grass surrounding him was dead, as if it hadn’t received water for months despite the near constant rain, which would soon be turning to snow. No sounds of animals, or even the wind, penetrated the clearing. A sense of unease crept across his being, uncanny of a sort.

In fact, the only thing that seemed to permeate the unnatural surroundings, was the lone well in the centre. A single bird, a magpie, calmly sat atop the edge.

The entire situation was odd, he was at least an hour outside of town, if not too. Why the fuck was a well so far away? It did look abandoned though, and old. Perhaps the path he had been following  _ was _ used to reach here, however long ago the well had been in use. The water had probably gone bad, if the dead plants nearby meant anything. It would explain why nobody seemed to visit it anymore. 

He approached, ignoring the bird as it hopped to the other end of the well, across from where he stood against the edge. It was old, that much was obvious, perhaps older than most of the buildings in Edgepass. The stone side was rubbed with age, any sharp edges eroded down to smooth rock. He ran his hand along it, feeling as his fingers slid across the surface. He shivered. When had it gotten so cold?

Placing his hands on the rim of the well, Felix leaned over slightly, glancing into the abyss below.

Suddenly, the magpie squawked and took flight, just before thunder cracked overhead, and he registered all sensation at once. He jumped back, shivering as the harsh, northern wind almost knocked him over. Rain poured all around him, drenching his heavy layers in an instant.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, looking around the clearing once more. It was too dark to make anything out, but he could have sworn it had been afternoon just moments before. 

He glanced back at the well, still standing solitary and alone. Fucking weird.

Begrudgingly, Felix hiked his way back to town. It took forever, the already lengthy hike extended by plants trying to kill him every step, and horrific weather. Fuck.

It was almost midnight by the time he made it back to the inn. Igor was still awake, and gave him an unsettled looked as he dragged himself back inside the warm walls. How was it even possible to be out so late?

He knew should ask about the well, but he was exhausted. Dragging himself back to town used up every reserve of energy he had.

Felix dragged himself up the stairs to his room, unlocking the door. It felt as if he’d been fighting all day. Carefully, he removed his soaked clothing, for the second night in a row, and hung it to dry in front of the fire. He should probably eat, he knew that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he curled up in his bed and fell into a restless sleep

* * *

The wind blew harshly as he ran, sprinting across the open field. Yellow flowers squashed underfoot as he did, crushed beneath the weight of his form. A howl sounded behind him, unnatural. It was a sound he’d heard time and time again during the war, the threatening shriek of twisted vocal cords, morphed by crest stones. The ground seemed to shake as the demonic beast trampled through the field behind him, growling. It was a chase, predator and prey. 

He knew, with every fiber of his being, that if it caught him he would die, and so he ran.

The back of his throat tasted like blood as he pushed into the trees, jumping over a log and landing with the grace only years of training could give him. The rain pounded down around him, it dripped in his eyes, blinding him against the undergrowth. He stumbled, barely catching himself as he kept running, kept going. The only sounds he could hear was the rain, the beast, and his own heavy, desperate breathing.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he thought he knew this place. This field and those trees, always menacing in the dark, imposing along the skyline. They blocked the stars.

To his right, there was a scream. High pitched and loud, like a child’s scream. Begging and pleading. He wanted to help, wants to find whatever child is so afraid.

He couldn’t. There was a hand around his arm, pulling him backwards. He struggled and thrashed, desperate for escape. Pleas fell from his lips as he was pulled back, and slammed into a nearby tree. His head bounced against the bark, leaving a dull ache and blurred vision behind.

The beast watched him, eyed his frantic movements. It looked hungry, angry. Like he was nothing but an animal in the path of this monster. This creature that only wanted to take and destroy and be all the things it couldn’t.

Suddenly it was freezing. He was alone, trapped in the cramped darkness. No light shone around him as he shivered, feeling along the walls for any kind of exit, any escape. Cold, wet stone closed in around him, pressing in on all sides as he ran his hands across the jagged rock. His fingers froze and ached, a sharp, biting pain. He couldn’t breathe, he was suffocating, drowning. Thrashing to try and reach the surface of the endless darkness. There was no escape, nobody was coming for him. He was going to die there, alone and forgotten.

There was a laugh, echoing off the walls of his prison. It taunted him, sneering at the tears that fell from his eyes as he begged. Begged for light, rescue, any proof that he wasn’t already dead.

He floated through the nothing, still desperate for air, desperate for life, for any chance.

He screamed.

Felix sat up straight in his bed, the scream still echoing in his ears, but it wasn’t his. Even awake, the sound continued. A desperate, terrified shriek. 

He bolted up out of bed, grabbing his sword from where it hung on a chair, and threw open his door. He didn’t even bother to close it as he ran down the stairs, following the sound. 

The other patrons, hungover from their night of reveling, were wearily waking up as they blinked at the sounds. Some far more alert than others, already moving to the archway that led to the kitchen..

Following the screams, he found himself moving through the kitchen, and into the small living quarters belonging to the family.

Stefan hid behind his mother, eyes wide. A bruise had blossomed under his left eye since the last time Felix had seen him. Tabitha stood in front of her son, shrieking as tears flowed freely from her eyes. Dressed in only her shift, it was easy to see the scars and bruises littering her arms.

They stood over the bloated and disfigured corpse of Igor.

Outside, the thunder crashed, and a magpie screeched.


	2. Chapter 2

It was ironic, considering Igor was the one who described to him what the bodies looked like. For some reason, Felix had figured it would be less... gruesome.

He ushered Tabitha and Stefan from the room. It didn’t matter if other people saw the body, he was just getting really tired of listening to her screaming sobs. It was heartbreak, of course, but if the injuries maring her skin were anything to go by, the world was a better place without the man, no matter how friendly he had been to Felix. 

Crouching down, he looked closely at the body. Investigation really wasn’t his thing, and there were definitely people much better suited for the job, but if he wanted the money he’d have to make due. Not to mention he was probably the best the town had in the way of people who knew what to look for.

Sure enough, just as Igor had said, his body was left in a particular state. His fingernails were torn, some almost completely off. The flesh at the ends were ground off, as if he had spent hours rubbing them against a rough surface. A handprint shaped bruise, an adult right hand, Felix noted, was discoloured against the ashen tone of death on his left arm. Looking closer, he could see more bruises, faded to be different ages, scattered across his body. Odd. Igor didn’t seem like the kind of man who would allow somebody to leave him with any sort of injury. Further up, his left shoulder was dislocated. More bruising, that looked suspiciously like a handprint as well, although not as clearly defined as his arm, stood stark against his pale throat.

His features were bloated and waterlogged, but there was no water around him. Both his clothing and hair were dry. Carefully, Felix pushed on Igor’s chest. Water bubbled in the man’s throat. He had definitely drowned. It was likely due to some kind of magic, but not any that Felix knew of. Then again, magic wasn’t exactly his forte (very specific reason magic, and simple healing spells aside). 

Lysithea would probably know (what didn’t she know honestly?), but she was all the way back in Ordelia. Anybody else who might have an idea was too far away to even consider. That left of course Ingrid. With her ability to kill mages, she knew a good amount about magic, she had even offered to come with him, but he had declined. Dragging her away from her territory, unstable as it was, for an indeterminate amount of time just seemed like a terrible idea. Of course he could try and send her a letter, pay somebody to take it back to the city, but it would be unlikely to even reach her, let alone get a response back to him, before he figured it out on his own.

Whatever he decided, first he needed to talk to Tabitha.

She was sitting out by the bar, her son next to her. A few of the village men whispered amongst themselves, tales of adultery. Was Stefan even Igor’s son? Or was he the bastard of some other man from a different town? Did she murder her husband?

Felix ignored them as he sat across from her. It was still dark outside, probably within the first hour before dawn. 

“Mrs. Winstral,” he said evenly. She looked up at him, visibly shaken. “What happened?”

She couldn’t tell him anything useful. She had gone to bed the night before, at the same time she always did. Out of her and her husband, she was the one to wake up early and prepare breakfast for anybody who cared to purchase it, or for the odd guest staying there. Usually, when she woke up Igor was asleep next to her, only that time he wasn’t. Not completely unheard of, sometimes he got a little excited with their patrons. When she went to make breakfast, she found him in the hall. No, she didn’t hear anything, no he didn’t have any enemies, no she didn’t have an accurate idea of when he died. 

All and all, it was pretty fucking useless.

After getting properly dressed, and eating what Tabitha let him grab from the kitchen, Felix took to the village again. They’re even emptier than the day before, and he figured news traveled quickly. It was likely nobody wanted to be around so soon after a murder. Idly, he wondered if he’d need to find alternate living arrangements. 

A tailor's shoppe, the one the children were in front of the day before, caught his attention. It was one of the only businesses that were still open. The rest of them, even the butcher and the baker, were closed. Odd.

Felix wandered over to it, and opened the creaky wooden door. A bell rang as he did.

The front room was full of fabrics, most looking like they were old and hand woven. The threads looked hand spun. Where had the owner gotten this product? Not a lot of traders came through the area. Perhaps it had been accumulated over several decades?

“Can I help you?” a young woman asked. Her strawberry blonde hair was coiled in a braid, and pinned out of the way. A few stray strands seemed to escape. Her clothing was well made, if of cheap fabric. Colours long since washed out from days in the sun.

“Maybe,” he answered, not even really knowing why he was there. “I noticed you’re open today. Nobody else seems to be.”

The woman, girl really considering who looked younger than him, shrugged. 

“Didn’t you hear of the death this morning?”

“Oh I heard.” She leaned on the counter in front of her. Old wood, scratches gauged into the top. “But I won’t be singing no requiem for the likes of him, nor any of the people killed that way.” She spoke harshly, unusual considering how often small towns and villages viewed the dead. The concept that a violent death and without proper burial, may cause the spirit to linger. Nothing but superstitions, but strong nonetheless.

“And why would that be?” he asked, easily keeping his tone even.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re askin’ a load of questions, for a traveler. The entire town knows you’re here by now. Already rumors going around that you were looking at the pig’s body.”

Wow. It hadn’t even been an hour.

It was his turn to shrug. “Call me curious.”

She bit her lip nervously. “This ain’t worth your time. Not even that diplomat you must be here ‘bout. Trust me when I say, the world is better without those people in it.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And care to explain why? It doesn’t seem like many other people share that sentiment.”

Surprisingly, she laughed. “You’re blunt, I like that. My name’s Marigold. Marigold Vace.” She answered the question before he even asked. “I was born the year the flowers started blooming here. My ma thought it was fitting.”

For some reason, that struck him. “They only started growing here recently?”

She shrugged. “Give or take fifteen years.”

So he would have been ten at the time. 

“Any idea why they started growing suddenly?”

Marigold shrugged. “Some people think the former Margrave must’ve brought ‘em. Apparently he was ‘round here not long before.” She changed topics before he could question further. “What’s your name anyways?”

“Felix,” he replied. “Back to the dead people.” Okay, good wording there. “Care to elaborate on  _ why _ you think the world is better off?”

She cocked her head a bit. “My pa was killed few years back. Found ‘em just over there,” she nodded to a rack of cloth. “Life got better after. No more yelling or beatings. The same for everybody.”

He remembered the bruises on both Stefan and Tabitha. “You mean every person who’s been killed was an abuser?”

She nodded. “It always gets worse this time of year to. Murders I mean. Always a cluster of ‘em right ‘round this season. Three or four. Apparently that’s why the town is so small now. Everybody up and moved away after the first few years of it.” A shrug. “I mean, you have to know what the people here think by now,” Marigold told him as she tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Some poor bastard’s taking revenge. Helping those who can’t help themselves.”

“What, a ghost?” he asked incredulously. “They aren’t real.”

“Got any other explanation to how a man drowns on dry land? Bodies always lookin’ the same? ‘Cause I sure don’t.”

No. He didn’t either.

“One more question,” Felix said. “I found a well, outside of town. It doesn’t seem to be in use anymore.”

“People say it's haunted,” she replied. “But I don’t know nothing about that. It was abandoned long ‘fore I was born. Never been there myself. But people, children ‘specially, say that if you go there at night, you’ll hear cryin’ from the bottom.” She flashed a smile at him. “Probably just the wind though, right disbeliever?” 

“Probably.”

He thanked her for her time, promised if he needed anything repaired while in town, he’d come to her. 

Ghost’s aren’t real, that much was a fact. Sure, he’d believed it at one point. Back when Glenn told him stories of hauntings, spectors wandering the halls of their home. It hadn’t taken long for his father to assure him that no, they weren’t real. Glenn was just trying to scare him. His disbelief was only strengthened after everything he saw. If they were real, he was sure he would have seen one by then. Was sure Dimitri would be haunting him. 

At least it wasn’t raining anymore. The sky was still grey and overcast, signaling that it would probably pick up again later, but he could pass through town without it meaning much.

Felix found himself wandering down the northern road, towards the home of Alesya and her aunt. He was fairly sure he still wouldn’t be able to speak to her, but it was worth a shot.

About halfway there, he stopped.

A singular magpie sat in the centre of the road, staring at him. It blinked, beady eyes watching him. It seemed unnatural.

“That’s a bad omen, you know,” a raspy voice said from behind him. Felix jumped, turning as he reached for his sword.

An old woman stood there, cackling. Her was hunched over, her weight on a crooked walking stick. Wisps of white hair flew around her face, as if undefined by gravity as the rest of the world was. An off coloured yellow skirt trailed on the ground, while a brown bodice hung off sharp, boney shoulders and her thin frame. A heavy brown cloak was thrown over top.

He hadn’t even heard her approached. How was that possible? Usually he could hear somebody coming, even on soft grass. Was he getting that out of practice in the years since the war? Surely his work as a mercenary would have kept those skills sharp.

“Did I scare you boy?” she took a step forward, feet dragging against the dirt. “Not as much as the bird should I recon.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Felix said, turning around. There was no way he would admit that yes, she had scared him. Well, surprised him. He wasn’t expecting some old crone to turn up behind him.

“One for sorrow,” she spoke from behind him, laughter in her voice. “Two for mirth. Three for a funeral, four for birth.”

He knew those words. An old rhyme. He remembered hearing it as a child, during time spent with the Gautier family. 

“Five for silver, six for gold,” he could hear the smile. The taunt in her words. “Seven for a secret, never to be told.” There was something else there, in her tone. Something uncanny. “Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss. And ten for a bird you must not miss.”

Felix was frozen, remembering the village children singing the song. It was about magpies, wasn’t it? 

“It’s odd” she started, “that a single magpie seems to follow you around. Sorrow and bad luck that means.”

“Who are you?” he snapped, facing her. “What do you want?”

“I wonder,” she cocked her head at him, “if you can help him.”

“What?” he asked. “Help who? What are you talking about?”

She laughed again, looking up at the trees nearby. “It’s a secret.”

He followed her gaze.

Seven magpies sat above them, watching their movement. He glanced behind him. The bird on the road was gone.

When he looked to the woman again, she was nowhere in sight.

Suddenly, Felix didn’t feel like talking to that kid anymore.

* * *

The wind blew gently across the field of yellow flowers. He sat on a swing, old and creaky. This place, a memory long forgotten. A childhood he’d tried his best to forget, but never quite could. Could never forget the laughter, and love. The way it felt when he smiled, something it felt like he hadn’t done in years.

A wooden sword lay forgotten in the grass, tossed unceremoniously. There were dents along the edge, from swinging only to be blocked by something hard. Most often the strong wooden shield he carried as they fought, now nowhere in sight.

He heard a laugh, beautiful and light. Joy swelled as it rang through the air. A child’s laugh, just barely twelve years old.

The smell of smoke caught his attention, drawing his eyes to the burning ground around him, heat permeating the dry air. Molten rock moved in streams like rivers around them as they stood, plotting and planning. 

Even though they grew up just a stone's throw away from that place, neither Felix nor Ingrid had dared step foot there before, let alone Lorenz. 

Suddenly he was fighting, the armour of house Gautier surrounded him as Felix cut them down. A sword through the gut here, slicing against an artery there. Under armoured and not used to the speed he possessed. 

He dodged, barely missing flames reaching up from the earth, grasping for another victim. Sweat poured down his face, burning his eyes. Ingrid was up ahead, avoiding the archers as she fought a mage. Claude wasn’t far behind her, leave the flighers to stay out of range. The professor nodded to him, and they both moved left, straight towards the enemy commander, towards Miklan.

It didn’t take long before they were in range, and Felix whispered, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Miklan is mine.”

Sword clashed against lance as fighting raged around them. It didn’t matter, they were both blind to it.

“Fraldarius,” Miklan sneered, the same way he always had. A man with no heart, no soul, no love of men. The only thing Miklan cared for was power, and himself. 

“Gautier,” he spat, gritting his teeth. Miklan was bigger than him. Had been bigger his entire childhood, always looming over them like they were nothing, less than him. As if he were stronger. In some ways, Felix supposed he was. After all, it must have taken a lot of strength to survive in his family, not that he cared. Miklan would die to his blade all the same.

They fought, parring against one another. Neither could get a good hit, and both knew that once the other did, it would be the end.

Finally, Felix saw an opening. 

“This should have been Sylvain,” he said, thrusting his sword through the gap in Miklan’s armour.

The man only laughed, cruel and taunting. “Well, it’s too bad he  _ mysteriously _ disappeared then, isn’t it?” Even as Felix pulled his sword free, Miklan still stood smiling at him, red blood against his white teeth. 

Everything was forgotten. His guard dropped, ever so slightly. His one, singular weakness. “Did you have anything to do with that?!” He knew the answer, they all knew. They’d known for years, even if they could never prove it. 

“So what if I did?” he lunged for the opening Felix had left, lance raised. There was no way he could block it. He braced for impact, the way he knew Sylvain had so many times as a child. Scared and alone, nobody to save him. Had he cried? Wished for Felix?

The sound of metal hitting metal drew his attention. Miklan was on the ground, Ingrid between them. Her relic raised. She panted against the exertion, blonde hair streaked in blood that he knew wasn’t hers. It was just them after all. 

The four of them, sitting and playing. Five if Glenn was included.

It was only the two of them left.


	3. Chapter 3

Felix woke with a start, the memory of smoke and blood fresh in his mind. Around him, his room in the inn came into focus.

He groaned, pushing himself up. How long had he slept? He remembered coming back, and laying down for a short nap, but it felt like much longer.

Pushing himself up, he hissed. Pain blossomed across his left arm, radiating from just below his elbow. In the low light of the room, with only daylight seeping in from behind the shutters, it was difficult to see anything wrong. 

Carefully, Felix got out of bed, and opened the shutters to allow light to flood the room. Outside, birds sang. The sun was just rising over the trees in the east. 

What the fuck? It was late morning when he’d dragged himself back to the inn, and laid down for a nap. Did he seriously manage to sleep for almost twenty four hours? How was that even  _ possible _ ? Most of the time, he was lucky to get seven hours, let alone an entire day. 

A throb in his arm pulled his attention, and he brought it up to inspect it in the early morning light.

A bruise, the shape of a handprint, was harsh and defined against his pale skin. Identical to the one he had seen on Igor’s corpse. In the exact same spot. 

It was deep purple, almost red, along the fingers, where most of the pressure would have been, although even the border of the palm had left a mark. He didn’t remember being grabbed in a way that would cause such a bruise, and he definitely couldn’t bend his arms enough to do it to himself.

Suddenly, knocking on his door drew his attention. 

He grabbed his sword, unsheathing it and silently crept across the room. There was no reason anybody would be knocking on his door. Tabitha would wait for him to come downstairs as she had the other morning. Unless she was planning on kicking him out. Felix couldn’t say he’d blame her, even if her husband  _ was _ abusive. She still seemed devastated over his death, although maybe that was shock.

Carefully as possible, he unlocked the door and opened it. 

Ingrid stood in front of him, dressed for riding in brown leathers. Her hair, which she had let grow out just a bit, was coiled into a bun.

“What are you doing here?” Felix snapped, more harshly than he meant to. She was free of blood and grime, but the way she looked standing over Miklan’s corpse was still fresh in his mind.

“That unhappy to see me?” she quipped, although the edges of her mouth curved up in a small smile. There was a twinge of sadness to it, the same one she gave him when he told her he was headed to Edgepass in the first place. She hadn’t wanted him to go.

Ingrid answered his question before he could ask it again. “I was worried. I know this time of year is hard for you, and I figured it’d be even worse being here.”

He scoffed. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t have come.”

Ingrid merely shrugged. “Maybe not, but I did. Besides, I could use a break. Galatea isn’t going to fall apart because I’m absent for a week or two. The professor knows I'm gone, and will help out if the need should arise.”

Of course she thought it through, Ingrid was nothing if not industrious. There was no way her principles would allow her to leave her lands, unless it was left in the hands of somebody she trusted greatly. In this case, the professor. How the woman would have time to watch over Galatea, along with the rest of Fodlan, was beyond him, but the Professor always was a miracle worker.

Grumbling, Felix stepped aside and allowed her to enter his room. Placing his sword back in its sheath, he grabbed a shirt and pulled it over his head, before looking back at her. She was looking around the room curiously. 

“Have you ever been here before?” she asked. 

He understood the reasoning. He had been to Gautier the most of all of them. “No, the only place north of here is the forts along the border of Sreng.” He shrugged. “The former Margrave never saw reason to bring me along, which I can’t say I’d fault him for.” Which was true. During all the summers spent in Gautier, the Margrave never saw a reason to risk the young Fraldarius by taking to him such a volatile area. He didn’t even bring his own sons, citing age for one, and lack of importance for the other. Ironic, all things considered.

She nodded in understanding, “The innkeeper mentioned you didn’t come down for dinner last night,” it was a casual statement, but he could read the question behind it. The slight concern in her voice.

Ingrid of all people knew what being there could do to him. She was probably the only person left alive who had seen him all those years ago, sobbing from the news that his friend was gone. She was there for the nightmares, even years later. Ones that resurged with the death of Miklan, and had only recently settled. So much for that.

He shrugged, “I was asleep.”

She raised her eyebrows at him, but said no more.

Together, they went downstairs. The boy, Stefan, seemed to be helping his mother by wiping down tables. He gave a small smile to Ingrid, and Felix was reminded how much better his friend was with children. And people in general.

They sat at a table, and ate the porridge Tabitha served them. It was the same food as it had been, and Felix found that he didn’t really have an appetite. 

Once neither Stefan or his mother where in earshot, Ingrid whispered, “no father?”

“Dead,” Felix replied. “Yesterday.”

She blinked in surprise. “Murdered?”

He nodded, forcing a bite into his mouth. It tasted like ashes. 

Once they finished eating, they retreated back to Felix’s room, where he explained everything he knew so far, only leaving out the well, his encounter with that old woman, and his dreams.

“Marigolds?” Ingrid asked curiously when he finished. “I thought it was too cold this far north for them?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Me too.” He wasn’t the most familiar with plants and flowers, but the professor had a love of them. Second hand knowledge hardly helped in most situations, but Felix was fairly sure she mentioned something about them while in Enbarr, where the climate was much warmer. At the very least he thought he’d seen them there, but never in Faerghus. 

She made a noise of curiosity. “I know you said you think its magic, but this isn’t any kind that I’m aware of.” Leaning back into the chair, and closed her eyes to think. “The closest I can think of is Those Who Slither in the Dark, but even this isn’t quite right. Besides, I don’t see why any left would be interested in some small town in the north.”

After more talking, they decided on their plan. They absolutely needed to talk to that child, Alesya. Ingrid would probably have more luck than he would, being a friendlier, more personable face. 

They walked through the streets, a light drizzle around them. It really was unusual to get so much rain that time of year, normally it only came during the summer, since in a few weeks it would all be covered heavy snow.

The children were out playing again, although slightly less than before Igor’s murder. A few squealed with laughter as they ran and played.

Felix tried not to think of the dream the night before. Of the field of yellow flowers, Marigolds, that he knew didn’t exist. His mind filling in familiarity into the blanks of his memories. After all, the field beside the now abandoned Castle Gautier didn’t have yellow flowers (it didn’t have flowers at all, after Miklan burned it to ash).

They arrived at the house, with the same empty clothesline, pile of firewood, and shuttered windows. The same uneven path, and marigolds growing all around.

Ingrid knocked on the door. He stood a ways back, so much so that he couldn’t hear whatever words they exchanged. The woman from before, the girls aunt, leaned out of the door enough to look at Felix, her eyes still unsure. Ingrid said something else to her, before putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Eventually, they were allowed inside.

The house was just as small as the exterior would suggest. A draft was sneaking in from the shuttered windows, with no glass inside them to help hold the heat in. He had no doubt it would be uncomfortable come winter.

The woman, Katrina Eddison she said her name was, busied herself with making tea, even though both Ingrid and Felix denied her offer. 

Alesya, the little girl they came to see, sat on a straw bed, piled in blankets. Her blonde hair was tied into messy braids. A bruise, barely noticeable if he wasn’t looking for one, was faded across her cheekbone. Seiros she was probably only five years old.

She looked up at them, dazed and not entirely there.

“Hello,” Ingrid said softly as she crouched down to meet her level. “My name is Ingrid. What’s yours?”

“Alesya,” her quiet voice answered.

“That’s a very pretty name! How old are you Alesya?” When had Ingrid gotten  _ this _ good at talking to kids? During her time as lady of Galatea? Or had it been Ashe’s influence? Maybe Claude? The man was surprisingly good with children, although that was likely due to his scheming nature.

The girl answered the normal questions just fine. She was four “and three quarters” years old, and came to live with her aunt, her mom’s sister. Her mom passed away a long time ago. Her favourite toy was a stuffed bear named Abbey. All in all she seemed like a pretty normal kid. That was until Ingrid asked about her dad.

“How did you get that bruise?” she asked, nodding to the faded mark.

Alesya looked down. “My papa.”

“Did your papa hit you?” 

Only a nod in confirmation.

“Alesya,” Ingrid began. “Can you tell me about what happened to your papa?”

Suddenly, the girl looked terrified. “I-I can’t tell you!” she shouted, scooting back on the bed until she touched the wall. 

“Why can’t you tell us?” she tried. Her voice was calm and even. 

The girl just shook her head, looking more and more frantic.

“We need to know-”

“Ingrid,” Felix said, before her aunt could step in and decide to ‘ask’ them to leave.

Ingrid bit her lip, looking like she wanted to fight, but nodded. She stood, and looked towards him as she moved to the side.

“You know,” he told her as casually as possible as he knelt in front of her. He nodded to the stuffed bear she held clutched to her chest, faded and purple. Most likely a hand-me-down from one of her parents. Probably her mother. “My friend had a horse named Abbey.”

“Really?!” she perked up immediately.

“Mhmm,” fuck, talking to children was hard. He wasn’t lying about the horse though, no matter how much the memory tugged at his heart to admit. He pushed it aside. 

She was unsure, biting at her lip, before quietly whispering, “Do you know him too?”

“Him?” Felix asked, eyebrows creasing.

Alesya nodded earnestly. “The boy. The one with the scars and bruises. He said his first horse was named Abbey.”   


Something within Felix stirred, an uncanny feeling of terror. Not quite natural. He pushed it aside.

“Is that so?”

She nodded again, looking down nervously. “He was mad that papa hit me, so he made sure he wouldn’t do it again. He told me not to tell anybody.”

He glanced at Ingrid, who’s eyebrows were creased in thought. “Does this boy have a name?”

She shook her head. It seemed like that was all the information they were going to get out of her, although they did manage to find out that the boy was a ‘big kid’, but not a grown up. Which really wasn’t helpful considered people had been dying that way for fourteen years, give or take. 

They walked back to the inn in silence. Felix suspected he knew what Ingrid was thinking, but really didn’t want to deal with it yet. It was just barely noon, and the rain had only just let up. Talking about what he knew she wanted to would only end in a fight.

Lunch was soup, served with a piece of slightly stale bread. Felix didn’t care. It was like every time he spoke to somebody in that goddess forsaken town he ended up exhausted, although he wasn’t sure if it was from the ‘emotional strain’ or not, such bullhit.

He hauled himself back up to his room, so that he and Ingrid could discuss what the girl had said, and try to figure out their next move.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t provide them with any kind of description, other than “bruises and scars”, and a rough age range. A big kid to a five year old was probably ten to thirteen, maybe fourteen. Any older and they started to be treated and viewed like adults. His time at the officers academy only solidified that. 

Only once they were safely behind Felix’s closed door, did Ingrid speak. “Abbey.” Was all she said.

“I know,” Felix replied, pulling out a journal. Usually he’d keep track of things like this in it, but he hadn’t had the energy the past couple days. Better late than never. He took out a pencil, charcoal carefully encased in wood, and began writing everything he knew on a blank page.

It took him a half hour to fill out two pages of information. It was very little to go on.

“In the Goddess’ name Felix,” Ingrid snapped, drawing his attention, “what in Ailell happened to your arm?” 

He looked down to wear he had apparently rolled up his sleeve without realizing. The bright purple bruise stood stark against his pale skin. In the light that morning she must not have seen it.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I woke up like that.”

“Does it hurt?” she reached forward and grasped it, pulling it more into the light.

“Only if you fucking touch it!” he spat, pulling out of reach. “Seriously, what the fuck Ingrid?” 

She just looked concerned. “Felix that’s a hand print.” 

“I know that!” he rolled down his sleeve. “It isn’t important.”

Ingrid didn’t look convinced. He couldn’t tell whether she assumed he had been in a fight, or made the connection on the placement. Either way, she didn’t question further, something he was thankful for.

They spent the afternoon thinking and talking, trying to come up with any feasible explanation. It was Ingrid who had the idea to start asking about what happened around when the deaths started. Maybe it was a parent whose child followed in their footsteps. Either way, perhaps somebody could shed some light. Really, Felix should have thought about that before. All he knew was that fifteen years ago marigolds started growing.

And that the former Margrave was in the area, but he pushed that thought aside, as he often did. There was no point to thinking about the long dead Margrave, nor either of his sons. The Gautier line was finished, and that was all that mattered.

He also knew that the deaths, murders, started a year or so after that, and they tended to occur in autumn. 

They retired for the night, deciding the investigate the next day. Ingrid was exhausted after days of travel, and Felix just generally tired from trying to figure out what the fuck was happening.

He thought he may have dreamed, but as he sat panting in the darkness, he couldn’t remember what it was about.

It was late morning when they ventured downstairs to eat breakfast in silence. before Ingrid quietly investigated. She had always been better at subtly, at least when concerning people. 

She came back with nothing of importance. The first death, from what people remembered, was a butcher, fourteen years before. They were about to give up when an elderly man entered, walking to the bar. He shared some quiet words with Tabitha, before she got him a drink. There was something about him they weren’t sure about.

His hair was white and thinned, leaving a bald spot on his head. His skin was wrinkled, aged by cold winters and hard work. A long scar ran along his face, cutting just above and below his eye. They couldn’t tell if it was damaged. 

Ingrid and Felix shared a look, and he shrugged. May as well talk to him. 

This time, Felix followed her. He watched as Ingrid flashed a pleasant smile, and introduced herself. Just her first name of course, no point in talking about titles. People closed off around nobles, not that he could blame them.

Running her lands really had done a number on her charisma.

The man introduced himself as Anlon Rinelta, he had spent the last few days out of town hunting, and had only just returned. 

“It’s odd to get visitors,” he said before taking a gulp of his ale. “What brings you here?”

“The murders,” Felix said bluntly. Call it intuition, but he had a feeling that straight forward was the way to go with this gruff man. 

Anlon hummed in response, eyeing them carefully. There was something almost familiar about the way he looked at them. The calculating gaze of a soldier.

Their eyes locked, and whatever he saw in Felix’s must have satisfied him. He put his pint down, and turned to face them.

His clothes were well worn, holes patched with mismatched fabric and leathers. At least it looked warm, which was probably needed when sleeping outside that close to winter. Whether he fought the empire and recognized them from Claude and Byleth’s army, he didn’t say.

“What do you want to know?” Anlon asked.

Ingrid took over the conversation, although his eyes never left Felix’s. 

“We’re trying to figure out what’s going on,” she told him, her voice strained. Clearly she was offended by the way she was being so bluntly ignored. “We were wondering if you could shed some light on what happened about the time the murders began. Fourteen years ago give or take.”

He shrugged. “I could.”

“Will you?” Ingrid asked, it sounded like she was speaking through clenched teeth.

“That depends,” Anlon leaned back, but his eyes never left Felix. “You’ve been marked.”

It was obvious he was changing the topic.

Felix stiffened. 

“You already know everything you need to,” he said. “You just aren’t ready to admit it yet.”

“What does that even  _ mean _ ?” Felix snapped. 

Anlon sighed. “To answer your question,” he finally turned to Ingrid. “The Gautier boy.” They both froze. He didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Fifteen years ago, the Margrave and his family were passing through on their way to Sreng. The youngest one disappeared. No clues, no ransom, no body. Nothing.” 

There was something about the way he talked about it. Something personal.

He looked back to Felix. “But you already know that, don’t you Fraldarius?”

The use of his last name surprised him, and he knew it showed on his face before he managed to school his expression back to its neutral scowl. Beside him, Ingrid was just as surprised, although less willing, or able, to mask it. 

“I was a guard for house Gautier,” he explained, voice low. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years looking for the body of a child that I’ll likely never find. Trying to make amends for my failures.”

Finally, he looked away from both of them, and downed his drink. Standing up, he gathered his cloak. 

“If you want to figure out why people are dying,” he told them as he walked passed them. “Start there.” 

With that, he left.

Felix and Ingrid were left standing in a stunned silence for a moment, before Ingrid turned to him.

“Felix-” she started, reaching a hand towards him. It was meant to be comforting, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but remember the bruise on his arm. The words that plagued his dreams more often than he would ever admit.

_ “So what if I did?” _

“Don’t,” he growled, stepping away from her. “We aren’t talking about this.”

She opened her mouth to say more, but he didn’t give her the chance. He didn’t want to know what words she was ready to throw at him, to try and comfort him. He didn’t need comfort. He never needed comfort. Hadn’t needed it since thirteen years ago, when the now dead Magrave finally decided to have a funeral for his missing son, finally decided to inter an empty casket in their family mausoleum. 

Only for Glenn to die a year later.

And Dimitri nine years after that.

His life had been plagued but nothing but death and loss, ever since childhood. Ever since his mother fell ill and died before he was even old enough to remember her.

At least he had been old enough to remember Sylvain.

He stormed away from Ingrid, away from her words of understanding. After all, she lost him too, but not like Felix did.

The door to his room slammed closed behind him, the lock slipped into place, and Felix took a shuddering breath. He wouldn’t cry. He wasn’t about to give into fifteen years of grief, pulling at him.

Outside his window, open to the light outside, a magpie cried.

He debated breaking the window just to throw his sword at it.

Instead, he pulled himself to the bathroom. He just needed some peace, some time to think. He could prepare his own bath, no need to bother Tabitha for it. 

The water stung at first, too hot to be comfortable, but that didn’t matter. The sting was a relief from the swirling thoughts in his mind. The storm of emotions that refused to let up.

He sunk into the hot water, letting it forcibly relax his body.

Abbey, the black mare Sylvain excitedly showed him. His first horse. A field of marigolds outside Sylvain’s childhood home, the one from his dreams, where he knew no marigolds grew. A boy with bruises and scars. 

_ “So what if I did?” _


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See all those tags? They're basically all in here, and all graphic.

He was drowning, pulled down to the black abyss of death. He can’t keep himself afloat. Why couldn’t he? He knows how to swim.

It’s so dark, he couldn’t tell which way was up, and which was down. It felt like somebody’s hand was wrapped around his ankle, tugging against his efforts to survive.

He wanted to scream, to beg, but he couldn’t. Not when his lungs were so full of water.

It was cold, freezing. The autumn air and cold water freezing his body, making his movements slow and choppy. He couldn’t force his muscles to work properly against the icy water. 

Was the darkness from lack of light, or his own vision going black? It was hard to tell. There were no sounds, nothing to see. His skin was numb from the cold, making it impossible to feel anything. 

How long had he been there, drowning? It felt like days, hours. Maybe even years. 

A hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him upwards.

He broke the surface of the water, gasping for air, only to be met with a very worried looking Ingrid.

The room around him was lit by the gentle glow of candle light, held in her hands. The rest was dark, and the bath water had gone cold.

What time was it?

“Are you okay?” Ingrid asked him, concern lacing her voice. 

“What happened?” he coughed, forcing the remainder of water from his lungs.

She put the candle down and passed him a large towel. “You were drowning. Did you fall asleep or something?”

He remembered the freezing water, much colder than what he was sitting in. The feeling of nothingness, of death. 

“I must have.”

Ingrid helped him out of the water, commenting that he was freezing, much more than he should have been considering the temperature.

“I think you have the beginnings of hypothermia,” she told him as she guided him back into the bedroom. She sat him on the bed, his hair still dripping water, and turned to light the fireplace. Her movements were shaky, frantic even. Apparently, she was just as confused as he was, and probably a little scared.

“You didn’t come down for dinner, and didn’t answer when I knocked.” She grabbed a dry pair clothes from his bag, still unpacked on the floor. 

Maybe it was the confusion, or lack of oxygen, but he didn’t fight her as she helped him into the clothes, and started towel drying his hair. 

“I waited a bit, and then got Tabitha to unlock the door,” Ingrid explained. The towel tightened around the tips of his hair, wringing the water from them.

He knew what hypothermia felt like. Growing up in Fraldarius, and spending years trying to protect its border from Gautier, taught him the feeling well. But that was different. He was shaking, skin numb from cold. It wasn’t normal, there was no lead up.

Outside, thunder rolled, signifying the start of another violent storm.

Finally, Ingrid sat back. He was wrapped in blankets, the fire crackling nearby.

“What happened?” she asked, mirroring the question he had asked not long ago. Her voice was soft.

“I-” he began, “I don’t know.”

They sat like that for awhile, listening as the rain and wind outside gathered strength. 

“What time is it?”

“Nearing midnight now.”

That struck him. It had been just before noon when he’d decided to take a bath. How had so much time passed? It was the second time he’d managed to sleep for hours.

He didn’t seem to voice his thoughts. Apparently Ingrid understood well enough.

Eventually, when she deemed him warm enough, she pulled him out of the cocoon of blankets. 

“Come on, we need to get some food into you.”

Surprisingly, very few of the regular patrons were around. He didn’t know whether it was from the storm, or the fact that their regular bartender was dead. Maybe a combination of both.

Either way, he supposed it didn’t matter. 

Tabitha was nowhere in sight, but her son was. He wiped down tables, and smiled sweetly as he and Ingrid descended the stairs. Good kid. 

Stefan made sure they were seated before scurrying off to the kitchen to serve whatever meal had been made for dinner. 

“Here you are Syr,” he spoke softly as he put a bowl of hearty stew in front of him, along with a slice of only slightly stale bread. 

“Thank you,” Ingrid answered for him, allowing him to eat in peace. Finally, after what felt like forever, she spoke to him. “Are you okay?”

He thought for a moment, wondering how to verbalize what was happening inside his head. Stefan was still wiping tables down nearby, not that Felix cared.

“I think,” he began carefully, choosing each word with care. As if saying it would make it more real than it already was. “I think I dreamed of the well.”

“The well?” she asked for clarification. He hadn’t told her about it. How could he put it into words?

“Excuse me,” Stefan spoke up. They both looked to him.

Thunder crashed outside as the rain pelted against the building. 

“Are you talking about the well just outside of town?” he asked, abid somewhat hesitantly. 

Felix raised his eyebrows. “I am. You know it?” Marigold was the only other person he had asked about it.

Stefan nodded. “T-the water went bad, a long time ago, so people stopped using it, but,” he bit his lip. “They say it's haunted. Cursed by death. That a vengeful spirit lives in it.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but closed his mouth, and bit his lip. He takes a deep breath, before speaking again. “I’ve been there. I used to hide near it, when my father was angry.”

Felix remembered the bruises speckled across the boy’s skin.

“Whatever’s there, it’s not evil,” he said. “at least, not in the way we think of it.” He looks at Felix, meeting his eyes from the first time. “I think you can help him.”

“Who?” Ingrid asked. But Felix already knew the answer.

“The boy who lives in the well.”

He was out the door before he even realized it, pushing himself into the pouring rain. Lightning flashed, but Felix didn’t care. Not when it all made sense, not when he had to know. 

Vaguely, he heard Ingrid calling his name. She was chasing after him.

“Where are you going?!” he could barely hear her over the crash of thunder, following a blinding flash. He didn't care. 

“The well!” he yelled back, not slowing down to make sure she heard. She could follow or not, it didn’t matter. He was faster than her anyways.

“Why?!” another flash, another crash.

He makes it to the treeline, barely having to look to spot the old path. Somehow, Ingrid is keeping pace with him, she followed his form as they made it into the forest.

For some reason, it seemed quieter, less hindered by the storm. But that didn’t make any sense, there was no way the forest could stop enough of the storm to lessen the noise.

“Don’t you understand Ingrid?!” he shouted, waiting for her to catch up even in his frenzied state. He didn’t know why it mattered so much, why he had to go right then, but he did. “It’s where it all started!”

She didn’t get a chance to reply before he was off running again, barely waiting long enough to stay in her sight. 

The well was far away, but for some reason, time seemed to flow differently.

It seemed like in the blink of an eye, he was breaking into the clearing.

The world was the same eerie calm it had been the last time he was there, as if the storm raging seconds before had just  _ stopped _ . Dead plants, grey in the dark, spiralled out from the well, right up to the edges of the trees. 

He could feel his breath, hear his footsteps dulled against the ground. Ingrid was at his back a moment later, freezing as she took in the world around her.

Nothing about that place was natural. Everything an uncanny feeling of  _ wrongness. _

Just as before, a single magpie perched calmly atop the well, as if waiting for him. 

Ingrid grabbed hold of his arm before he could step forwards. “Felix,” she said. There was an edge to her voice, and he couldn’t say he didn’t understand. “We should leave. This place... it isn’t right.”

He knew that, nothing about it was right. But he couldn’t leave. He had to know.

Pulling from her grasp, he started towards the well. Ingrid didn’t follow, either too shock, or scared. He wouldn’t blame her.

The anxiety of entering Shambhala, a place older than recorded history, was nothing compared to this. The feeling he had was like lead pulling against him. Still, he moved. Each step like walking on glass as he approached. All of his senses screaming at him to leave, to run. He ignored them.

Just as he reached the edge of the well, Ingrid was spurred into action. 

“Felix!” she shouted, racing towards him.

He turned to her, a hand still resting against the edge. 

Just as he was about to speak, he felt a small, freezing hand grasp his wrist, and pull.

He shouted as he tumbled down the well, the hand still grasping his wrist,

Suddenly, he hit the water.

* * *

It was sunny, a gentle breeze rustling the leaves colored in beautiful shades of red and orange. The trees stood high above them, protecting the small clearing from the worst of the cold and wind, from the worst of the world.

In the middle, stood the well. Grey stone the same as the last time Felix had seen it. It looked different though, calmer. This clearing didn’t give him the same sense of fear as before.

Movement caught his eye, the bright red hair blending in with the leaves. He’d always looked like an autumn child, especially then, back resting against the well. Warm finery covered him, befitting the station as the heir of Gautier. Even with the boy’s head down, arms wrapped around knees, he knew him.

Sylvain.

He took a step, hesitant, his breath caught in his throat. He’d recognize the shaking of his shoulders anywhere, silent tears he’d grown accustomed to seeing. 

Growing up, Sylvain had mastered the ability to cry without people realizing, always quiet and desperate. More than once, Felix had crawled into his arms as they cried together, always forgotten.

He was about to speak, reach out to him, call for him, when he heard the snap of a twing. 

Apparently, Sylvain heard it too.

They both glanced towards the sound, but Felix didn’t miss the look of fear the crossed his friend’s features.

Miklan, much younger but just as angry, stepped out of the treeline. 

“There you are,” he said, a sneer to his voice. His clothing wasn’t as fine as Sylvain’s, barely befitting a noble, let alone an eldest son. “Mother and father are looking for you.”

Sylvain stiffened, looking away from his brother. “Tell them you didn’t find me.”

He can hear the desperation in the words. The sound of a scared child, begging somebody to step in, to help him. Felix wants to, more than anything wants to stand in front of Miklan, run him through with his sword a second time. Comfort the scared child, twelve years old and oh so alone.

Miklan laughed, the sound so similar to the one that taunted Felix’s memories. 

_ So what if I did. _

“Don’t worry, little brother,” he spat the words, and Felix flinched with the knowledge that their shared blood meant nothing. That he saw Sylvain as less than human, as an obstacle in his path, something to be eliminated. He watched as Miklan’s eyes flicked from Sylvain to the well, and back. “I intend to.”

He took a step towards him, and suddenly Sylvain was on his feet, fear evident in his expression.

Felix too, took a step forwards, instinct taking over.

“You know, if hadn’t been for you-”

Sylvain cut him off, shaking with anger and terror. “ Shut up! I'm so tired of hearing that. You've always blamed me for something that isn't my fault!”

“It is your fault!” Miklan spat, and he lunged. 

Sylvain was fast, had always been, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way of his eighteen year old brother.

Miklan grasped his left arm and yanked, pulled Sylvain towards him.

The bruise on Felix’s own arm pulsed.

“Let me go!” Sylvain yelled, trying to pull against his brother’s grip. Mikaln didn’t relent.

“You’re nothing but a crest bearing brat!” he shouted, tightening his grip. 

Sylvain cried out. 

“What? Hurts?” Miklan spat. “Good! You’re nothing but a worthless shit. Nothing but a waste of air and life.” His other hand reached forwards, gripping Sylvain’s throat. “But don’t worry, I intend to fix that.”

Felix was frozen as he watched, Sylvain dangling above the ground as Miklan choked him, dragging him towards the edge of the well.

As they approached, Sylvain became more desperate. His hands tried to pry Miklan’s off his throat, but he couldn’t.

“Miklan-” he gasped as his brother held him over the edge. “Please-”

Miklan let go.

* * *

Sylvain was screaming, banging his hands against the side of the well. “Miklan!” it came out croaked and broken. His sobs shook his entire body, loud and desperate. 

Felix watched as he clawed against the edge of the well, fingernails ripping as he did.

It didn’t stop him.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he realized he was watching Sylvain die. Trapped hopelessly in the bottom of an abandoned well, the air freezing against the water as the days turned to nights. 

“Somebody,” his voice was weak, hoarse from screaming, the words were pleading. His hands were bloody, the skin shed from his fingers as he tried to climb against the slippery edge.

It had been days. Nobody was coming.

“Please,” he whispered, a sob shaking his body. He was too weak to try and climb out, could barely keep himself from slipping below the water. “Felix..” 

It was so quiet that Felix barely heard him

“Felix!” he was loud again, begging. Begging for the one person who ever made him smile, ever made him feel safe. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry.” It wasn’t the apologies he’d be screaming for days, not the kind meant to plead for safety. It was earnest, begging for forgiveness.

He was apologizing for leaving  _ him. _

* * *

Felix broke the surface of the freezing water. It was dark, suffocating, just like his dream.

“Felix!” Ingrid shouted from above him. He looked up. Somehow, even in the darkness of the night, she was leaning over the edge. When had she gotten a lantern? “Felix! Are you alive?!” there was desperation in it. 

“Yes!” he called back. He was crying, but he needed to answer her. Needed to reassure her that she hadn’t lost him too. “I’m okay!”

His shoulder ached, so did his arm. His clothing was soaked, and he’d probably develop actual hypothermia sooner rather than later.

Ingrid said she was going for help, but Felix didn’t care.

Didn’t care, because wrapped around his arm was still the small, fragile hand of a child. 

He called light to his palm, the first spell the professor had ever taught him.

The well was small enough that he easily spotted the head of red hair, floating just beneath the surface. 

Desperate, Felix reached down, grasping for it. He gripped what must have been his shoulders, and pulled him above the surface of the water.

A sob escaped him as he saw him.

Sylvain.

His skin was grey, but full. He looked almost like he was sleeping, even if unnaturally so. His hair plastered to his face.

Carefully, Felix adjusted his grip until he was cradling the body of his friend against him.

He could see the bruising on his neck, and the handprint, matching his own, on his arm.

This was Sylvain. The body of his best friend.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, holding the head of red hair against his chest. “I’m so fucking sorry.” He cradled him there, rocking back and forth as tears flowed from his eyes. “It’s okay,” he whispered, running a hand through the wet hair. “I’m here now. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He felt it slowly, the feeling of flesh giving away to nothing. Moving Sylvain away from him, he watched as he disappeared in front of him, leaving nothing but bones behind. 

Grabbing his blue cloak, he wrapped Sylvain in it before it could complete, catching even the smallest of bones as the ligaments holding them together disappeared. 

In the end, he was left with nothing but bones, and the memories of his childhood friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is a very short epilogue


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not *super* happy with this ending, but I spent two weeks on this and honestly, I'm just glad I finished it.

“Felix?” Ingrid asked. She stood next to him.

Neither of them had been back to Garreg Mach since the end of the war, but it just felt right.

It was where the four of them were supposed to be, where they were supposed to go. Maybe in another world, they all would have survived. Maybe he would have been Duke Fraldarius, and Sylvain Margrave Gautier. Maybe Dimitri would have become king, and Ingrid his knight.

He hoped somewhere, that was true.

They stood in the cemetery, staring at the grave of their friend.

It felt wrong to bury him with his family, not when he’d hated his parents like he did. Felt wrong to bury him with the people that killed him, the second they decided Miklan was nothing. 

So they brought him to Garreg Mach, carefully bundled in Felix cloak.

The professor met them there, did the funeral rites herself, even if she had never known Sylvain. Where she found the time, nobody was sure, but she’d managed it.

“You know,” Ingrid said as she stood next to him. “I asked the professor. Apparently marigolds can symbolize grief, cruelty, and jealousy.”

Felix laughed, cold and empty. “Fitting then, weren’t they?”

There were no marigolds at Garreg Mach, they didn’t lay a bouquet of them in front of Sylvain’s grave. No, that was white anemones and lilies. 

He’d told Ingrid what he’d seen, but even she seemed to doubt him. Excused it as desperation and grief. He hadn’t had the heart to argue.

Marianne believed him. 

“Sometimes, the goddess can’t reach everybody,” she said softly. “But you helped her reach him.”

It was a comforting thought, that maybe if he hadn’t been able to save him, he’d managed to let him rest.

The professor offered him Fraldarius again, offered him Gautier when he turned her down. He turned that down too.

He just needed space. Time to process everything he’d lost. The thing’s he’d ignored for more than half his life.

Ingrid invited him to Galatea, even though she knew he’d refuse. He did.

In the end, he decided to stay at Garreg Mach, at least for a little while. At least until the dreams stopped. 

Finally, after weeks of nightmares  he dreamed of Sylvain smiling, for the first time in fifteen years.


End file.
